The Anniversary
by Burked
Summary: G/S. On her anniversary, Sara reflects on her time in Las Vegas.


**Title:**               The Anniversary

**Author:**           Burked

**Disclaimers:**   CSI is owned by Alliance Atlantis, CBS, et al.  I am not one of the et al.

**Summary:       **G/S.  Sara reflects on her three years in Las Vegas.

It was nearing the middle of October, bringing back memories of eastern trees painted in gold and red.  Autumn was Sara's favorite season during her time at Harvard, rivaled only by spring.  But here in Vegas it was not really much different from September or even August – hot and dry.  The few deciduous trees that were transplanted here from more hospitable climes were either green if the owners drenched them with water daily, or starting to turn a sickly yellow from dehydration.

She looked a little out of place, like the ubiquitous tourists.  Despite living in a region of almost unending sun, she was pale, not because she could not tan, but because she so rarely ventured out in the daylight.  The freckles that dotted her face and body spoke of many hours in the sun when she was still living in California.  

Sara had scheduled to have this evening off, trading with Nick when she had seen that initially been slated to work on October 13.  No one but Sara knew that there was any significance to this day.  It wasn't a holiday.  It wasn't her birthday; that had been almost a month passed.  She thought warmly of the little cake that Nick had brought in, "Happy Birthday, Sara" and a "32" scrawled in gel across its face.

As she walked slowly through the park, she allowed her mind to drift back to October 13, 2000, the day she arrived in Las Vegas.  It seemed like a place of infinite possibilities on that day, including some possibilities she had only dreamed about in San Francisco.

She remembered thinking excitedly that this was her opportunity, her shot, at fulfilling more than one of her goals.  She knew before she arrived that the Las Vegas lab received almost 2,000 job applications per year; the competition to be hired here was brutal.  Every criminalist and lab technician that had any gumption at all wanted to work in the best labs, and Vegas was the best local lab in the country – probably in the world.  It was only eclipsed by the FBI labs, which were many, mammoth and infinitely better-funded.

She knew that she might get a glowing recommendation to put with her own application if she could do a good job on her contract assignment here.  She would probably rankle the staff with her investigation of Holly Gribbs's death and Warrick Brown's possible involvement, but she also realized that it would establish her objectivity and determination if she could pull it off.

The fact that the man who called her here, the man who ran the most successful shift in the second-most successful lab, was an old friend was a bonus.  'Friend,' she huffed to herself.  'Who am I trying to kid?' she asked herself.

She admitted to herself that he had been the object of her second goal.  She had hoped that proximity would move along the years-old attraction that she had been sure was mutual.

'Was it worth it?' Sara asked herself, easing herself tiredly onto the park bench, watching children playing tag a few hundred feet away and a man and his dog playing frisbee.  The scenes of exuberance and life being lived painted a much different picture of this park than Sara had indelibly etched in her mind.  She had only seen it as a crime scene, and still half-expected to stumble on the missing knife used to kill the Hanson boy.  

Despite having solved the crime, Sara had returned to this park on three separate occasions on her nights off.  She had searched alone in the dark, her flashlight cutting swaths across the grass.  It bothered Sara that they never found the weapon – she hated loose ends.  

Young Eric Hanson admitted shooting his mother's boyfriend, and told them that the man had stabbed his brother, but he didn't know what had become of the knife.  He denied moving it, and she had no reason to disbelieve him.

She had finally accepted that someone must have stumbled across it between the time of the murders and the time she and Grissom found the crime scene.  Whoever had it would have had to clean the victim's blood from it, so they would have known it was accursed.  She had tried in vain to find the knife before it could kill again.

It felt good to see the other face of this park, to remind herself that it existed as more than a crime scene.  No matter where she went in Las Vegas, she could probably recite a crime that had happened there or close-by.  She had felt herself become jaded, seeing only the pain associated with each site, rarely thinking about the pleasure that no doubt had happened there as well.

'Pleasure and pain,' she summarized to herself.  'That about sums up my time here,' she nodded to herself.  Sara slumped down and leaned her head back on the top rail of the bench.  She allowed her mind's eye to project pictures on the cloudless blue backdrop of the sky, her heart supplying the emotions like a soundtrack.

She remembered that Nick was the first one to really try to be friends with her.  Warrick was distant, as was to be expected.  Catherine would vacillate between being moderately friendly and coldly suspicious.  With her, there always seemed to be an undercurrent of competition.

But Nick was different.  Though he was best friends with Warrick, he seemed able to understand that Sara had only been doing the job she was brought here to do.  He didn't resent her, and his competitiveness had a playful quality to it.  

Sara had often wished that she had control over who she loved.  One would think that it would be possible.  Nick was handsome, kind, attentive and light-hearted.  He would have been a much better candidate than the one her heart had chosen, a man who was handsome, impassive, inattentive and somber.  'You can really pick 'em, Sidle,' she berated herself.

It seemed like most of the men she worked around had some endearing quality that should have been enough to pique her interest, at least on some level.  Greg had boundless energy and a zest for experiencing as much as possible of what life had to offer.  David was possibly the sweetest, most lovable, man Sara had ever met;  she knew he would sooner die than hurt anyone.  Warrick was enigmatic, a good man, but with an exciting touch of danger to his character.  Like Sara, he was volatile, and she doubted that any woman who claimed Warrick would ever be bored.

'But, no,' she snorted to herself, 'I had to fall for the one who only offers me confusion and rejection.  How stupid is that?' she asked herself in utter disbelief.  

She wished that she had known all along that he would never fulfill his end of her fantansies.  Maybe she could have headed off all the heartache if she had diverted her attention while it was still just an attraction.

'But half a loaf is better than no loaf at all,' she reminded herself.  She had at least secured a position there, so one goal had been accomplished.  She could get a job anywhere in the country now, with this on her resume.

'Maybe it's time to test that theory,' she told herself.  'Nothing's going to change here.  I'm as high up the ladder as I will get.  Even if Grissom retires, which I doubt will happen any time soon, Catherine would probably get his job.  If I want to advance my career, I need to move.'

Her career was all that was left to her now, her only motivation for getting out of bed.  It was the one aspect of her life that she exercised any control over, the one thing that brought her any sense of self-esteem.  

Her only friends outside of work were back in San Francisco, with her family living only an hour from the city.  She didn't date, and frankly didn't want to think about it, ever since the fiasco with Hank.  'Well, that's not altogether true,' she reminded herself.  'I thought about it ... once.'  She could still see her own confusion mirrored in his eyes.  She knew that he wanted to know what to do – he just didn't.  And probably wouldn't.  Ever.

All in all, she considered, there was little to tie her here.  She would miss her work friends a lot, but she had stayed in touch with her friends in San Francisco, and she saw no reason why she couldn't maintain her friendships here as well.

Maybe with time and distance she could even establish a normal friendship with Grissom – a real friendship where you talk and share your experiences and feelings.  

After all, he had started to treat her better these past few months.  He seemed less preoccupied and distant, though not nearly as close as he had been the first year she was here.  Wherever he had gone on his vacation in May seemed to have done him a world of good.

For a while, it had seemed that he only wanted to work with Catherine, which had caused Sara more than one pang of jealousy.  But after his vacation, he began to rotate with the other CSIs more as time went by.  Gradually, he had allowed her to work on cases with him occasionally again.  

Working with him would be something she would definitely miss, she admitted to herself.  Lately it was starting to feel a little more like the old days, where they worked seamlessly, as though they shared a mind.  He seemed to be more at ease with her again, the memories of the last year apparently fading somewhat. 

She recalled with a smile the last case they had worked together, just four days ago.  Sitting in the break room, taking a much-deserved lunch break, they had fallen into the easy banter of long ago, and he laughed at some snarky comment she had made about the main suspect.  It was almost poignant to think about; it had been so long since she had heard him laugh out loud.

'Maybe he was having a mid-life crisis last year,' she posited to herself.  'And now he's finding himself again.'  She hoped it was true, for his sake.  He had seemed so devoid of any joy.  'A mid-life crisis might explain his short-lived fling with Lady Heather,' Sara convinced herself.  

Her contemplation of that was thankfully broken by the insistent ring of her cell phone.  "Sidle," she answered automatically.

"Hey, girl!  Holding out on us?" Catherine asked, obviously bemused.

"What are you talking about?" Sara asked, curious.

"You got a new man in your life?" Catherine asked point-blank.

"Not that I know of," Sara answered in abject confusion.

"Well, _someone_ sure thinks you're special!" Catherine practically squealed.

"What makes you think that?" Sara asked, standing up from her bench and beginning the trek back to her car.

"Someone has sent you three dozen red roses!" Catherine related eagerly.

"Who?" Sara asked.

"And how would I know that?" Catherine asked, feigning offense.

"You no doubt read the card by now," Sara answered evenly.

"Well, only to see who they were for," Catherine said.

"The name would be on the _outside_ of the envelope, not the inside," Sara retorted, toying with Catherine.

"Okay, okay.  So I peeked.  But there was no name on the card," she admitted.  "You've got to stop in and get them.  They're gorgeous!  We'll help you carry them to the car," Catherine said excitedly.

"They'll still be there tomorrow," Sara told her, knowing that her lack of enthusiasm would irk Catherine to no end.

"You've got to be shitting me!  Someone sends you three-dozen long-stemmed red roses and you're gonna wait until tomorrow to see them!   Don't you even want to know what the card said?" Catherine asked in amazement.

"Okay, if it will make you feel better, tell me what the card said," Sara answered disinterestedly, even though she was as curious as Catherine was.

"It just said, 'Happy Anniversary.  I'm glad you stayed.'  What does that mean, Sara?" Catherine pressed.

"Beats me," she said.

"Well, if you have an anniversary with someone and you don't even remember it, they are sure going to be pissed," Catherine warned.

"Maybe it's a joke or a mistake," Sara offered.

"Then it's an expensive joke!" Catherine laughed.  "There must be two-hundred dollars worth of flowers in here.  And these aren't the cheap-assed vases, either.  They look like crystal.  Someone must think a lot of you!  Now quit playing with me.  Spill it!" Catherine demanded.

"I honestly don't know, Catherine," Sara told her truthfully, though she knew who she wished had sent them, knowing all the while how unlikely it would be.  The plant and no sentiment on the card was his style, not dozens of roses.

"Okay, Catherine.  If it will get you off my back, I'll drop by and get the stupid flowers," she agreed, trying to sound resigned instead of excited.

"I can't wait until you see them!  You're going to just die!" Catherine screamed.

"At least it would be convenient for the coroner," Sara quipped.  "It will take me about fifteen minutes to get there.  Bye," she said, closing the phone before Catherine could continue gushing about the roses.

On the drive, she warned herself to not get too excited.  There was no indication of who sent them, and she could be setting herself up for a major disappointment.  This could all be a mistake at the florists, for all she knew, though it would be quite coincidental that the intended recipient was also having an anniversary.  And she reminded herself that no one knew about her anniversary today.

Catherine was waiting outside, unable to contain her excitement.  "Maybe you met someone.  Someone you didn't really think anything about later, but he's been thinking of you," she theorized.  

"Maybe it's a psychotic who's fixated on me," Sara countered, wishing Catherine would calm down; she was making Sara even more anxious.

"You're always so optimistic," Catherine said sarcastically.

"Yeah, and I'm usually not disappointed," Sara rejoined.

Catherine had Sara by the arm and practically dragged her into the breakroom.  The room had never seemed either particularly large or small to her, but it seemed to have shrunken in size, appearing to be filled with the roses.

When she breeched the door, the scent hit her full force.  She walked over to the center arrangement and plucked the card out of its holder, reading the florist's name and phone number off of the card.

"What are you doing?" Catherine asked, watching her dial on her cell phone.

"I'm going to check this out," Sara answered, completely the investigator.

"Hello, my name is Sara Sidle and I work at the Crime Lab on Tropicana.  Did you deliver three dozen roses here earlier today?"

"Yes, ma'am.  We delivered them an hour or so ago.  Is everything all right?  Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No.  There's no problem.  Who are they for?"

"They are for you, if you are really Sara Sidle," he answered, confused by her question.

"For me.  I see.  Are you sure?"

"Uh, yes ma'am.  I'm sure.  I took the order myself," he said.

"Okay.  Who sent them?"

"I don't know.  Some guy.  He paid in cash.  Didn't ask his name," the man said, becoming concerned that there was a problem.  

"What did this man look like?" Sara asked, shooing Catherine back from the phone.

"He was medium tall, about six feet I guess.  Medium build.  Geez, lady, I didn't take a picture!" he said, frustrated.

"How old was he?  What color was his hair?  His eyes?  You've got to remember something about a man who places such an expensive order," she contradicted him.

"Uh, let me think.  He was middle-aged, I think, but I don't know about his eyes.  I don't spend a lot of time looking deeply into other men's eyes," the clerk said defensively.

"Okay, thank you," she said, hanging up.

"Well?" Catherine demanded.

"He doesn't really remember what the guy looked like," Sara said.

"I'm sure you find out sooner or later," Catherine said in resignation.  "And when you do, you better tell me!" she warned.  "Want some help with these?" she asked.

"No, I'll get them in a little while.  By the way, what are you doing here during the day?" Sara asked, just realizing that it was 11:00 a.m.  

"Grissom and I got a case late, about five o'clock.  We just got back from the scene," she answered tiredly.  "I wish people would have the good grace to schedule their crimes to fit our shifts a little better," she joked.

"Guess you'll be heading out then?" Sara ventured.  

"Yeah, just as soon as my little legs can carry me out.  I just stayed to see if you would solve the mystery of the roses for me," she admitted.

"Sorry!" Sara shrugged.  "I can't solve 'em all!" she quipped.

"See you tonight," Catherine said, walking tiredly out of the door, now that the excitement of the flowers had worn off.

"Tonight," Sara nodded, turning back to her flowers.  She gently took a petal between her thumb and forefinger, pulling softly along the silky skin.  She brought her fingers to her nose and inhaled the heady scent still clinging to her.

"Do you like roses?" she heard from behind her.  She turned and saw Grissom leaning against the doorframe.

"Of course.  What woman wouldn't like three-dozen red roses?" she asked.

"You're not a typical woman," he said, tilting his head.

"I choose to take that as a compliment," she laughed.

"It was meant as one," he affirmed.

"No name on the card," she said, holding it out for him to see.

"Hmmm.  That's strange.  Maybe the sender didn't want prying eyes to know who sent them," he posited.

"You would think the sender would want _me_ to know who sent them," she countered, bewildered.

"Maybe the who isn't as important as the why," Grissom said quixotically.

"I assume the why is contained in the sentiment on the card," she said.

"I thought you were going to be here tonight, but Nick tells me that you and he switched days off.  Do you have something special planned?" he asked, the sudden shift in subject jarring.

"No.  I spent the morning in the park, reminiscing mostly.  Thought I'd go home and sleep.  Maybe go to the movies or watch TV tonight.  Nothing special," she said.

"Reminiscing?" he asked, walking up to take a closer look at the flowers.

"Catherine is dying to know what these are for," Sara chuckled.  

"What are they for?" he asked, pulling a flower up slightly to bury his nose in its petals.

"The anniversary of the day I started here ... I think," she answered.  

Grisson gently pushed the rose stem back down into the vase.  "You came to us on October 13, 2000.  It was a Friday," he recounted, as though it was natural to remember what day of the week she arrived.

"It was the morning.  Nick was dropping dummies off a hotel roof and you were shooting pictures," she reminisced.  

"I don't even have to turn around.  Sara Sidle," Grissom re-enacted.

"It's me!" Sara said brightly, a smile lighting her face.

"God, Sara.  I have so many unanswered whys," Grissom said sadly.

"So do I," Sara agreed, her smile fading quickly.  She spun around, feeling herself overwhelmed with a sense of loss.  She had briefly relived the excitement and joy at her arrival, only to have him remind her that it was all gone now and she didn't even know why.

"Let me help you take these to the car," he offered, picking up two of the vases of flowers.

"That's okay, Grissom.  I can get them," she said weakly, trying to subdue the quiver in her voice.

"I know you can.  I'd like to walk you to your car, okay?" he said.

"Sure.  Okay.  Whatever," she said noncommitally, taking up the remaining vase.

Once at the car, she opened the door to the back seat and considered the question of how to keep the vases upright until she got home.  

"I could hold them for you, and help you get them upstairs," Grissom offered.

"Yeah, and how do you plan on getting back to work?" Sara quipped.  "That would be a lot of trips just to take flowers home, bring you back, then go back home."

"You could bring me back tonight when you go to work," he said, his face obscured from her by the roses he was holding.

"What would you do all day at my house?" she asked guardedly.

"I can occupy myself," he said.

"Aren't you tired of occupying yourself?" she asked, tossing him a double entendre for a change.

"Well, it's all right, but it's more fun if you have someone else to occupy yourself with," he said playfully, tossing it back to her.

"Are you suggesting that we could find something that could occupy both of us?" she asked slyly.

"It's your house, so I guess I'd have to go along with whatever you wanted to do," he said, peeking around the flowers to gauge her reaction.

"_Whatever_ I want to do?" she asked salaciously.

"Like I said, it's your house," he answered mock-seriously.

"Get in," she said, opening his door, watching him struggle to sit gracefully with both hands holding the heavy vases of flowers.  She sat the third vase between his feet and closed the door.  

When she had buckled in, she looked across to Grissom, who was barely visible amongst the flowers.  His voice wafted out from the petals, like the sweet scent of the roses, "Happy Anniversary, Sara.  I'm glad you stayed."

"You read the card?" she asked.

"I wrote the card," he answered.


End file.
